


First Line

by White_Eyebrow



Series: The Houses Competition: Year 5 [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fan theory, Other, POV Female Character, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2021-02-01 06:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21410737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Eyebrow/pseuds/White_Eyebrow
Summary: No magic in this universe is a match for the will of she who has command of the quill.
Series: The Houses Competition: Year 5 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1543387
Kudos: 1





	First Line

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for The Houses Competition, Year 5, Round Three.
> 
> House: Gryffindor (The only house that matters)  
Class Subject: Potions  
Category: Drabble  
Prompts:  
[Speech] "Hey [Name], do you want to help?" / "I wish I could, but I don't want to."  
[Setting] Newsroom  
[Song] "Turning Tables" by Adele
> 
> A/N: The premise belongs to fandom; the sloppy execution belongs to me.

* * *

When I was a little girl, I dreamed of writing the next great novel worthy to be shelved amongst the other masterpieces of world literature. No one bothered to tell me that the pay is rubbish. As an adult, I still hold on to that dream. I thought, in fact, that becoming an ace reporter would be a clever segue to inaugurate such an undertaking. Ironically, it has proven to be a blocker, for reporting is a form of storytelling all its own, and it has therefore demanded every ounce of my creative energy to keep the public informed on the correct version of current events.

Now, I know what you're thinking, as you arch your eyebrows, but think about it. The truth is not an island; it must be framed properly, lest you cause offense to your readers. Certain judgemental detractors of that viewpoint would call such a presentation 'embellishment' or 'fake news.' However, the 'truth' is that people hate being told the truth. As a result, the truth has never been politically or financially expedient. Like it or not, those who control the quill, control your very perception of reality.

But, I digress. Today, I am a novelist… without a novel.

I feel alone in a room full of reporters, trying to ignore the ambient din, as I await inspiration. _Futile!_ You've probably heard that turn of phrase about the hardest part of writing any novel being the opening line…. Well, it's true. My muse is a word-tease.

In spite of the bustle about the office, all I can hear is my four fingers thrumming against the desktop. My magic quill stands on end, awaiting my words, but my words are not forthcoming.

"Rita!"

My eyes look up to regard my co-worker, Betty Braithwater. She goes in on me before I have the chance to acknowledge her.

"How did you do it, Rita?"

I glimpse my byline, featured prominently in the latest edition of the _Prophet_ that she clutches angrily in her hand, and I know what she's referring to; however, I choose to maintain the pretence. "You're going to have to be more specific, Betty."

"Auror Procter banned the press from attending Death Eater Lee Strawnje's arraignment, yet somehow _you_ were able to sneak in and scoop everyone."

I make an attempt at maintaining a humble facade, but who am I kidding? "That's why I'm the best, dearie."

She doesn't like that at all. "If you really are the best, why do you still work out of this shabby desk, and not a proper office?"

"The field is my office."

To my consternation, she seats herself in the guest chair at the front of my desk. She unfolds the newspaper in her hand and reviews my article. "Harrison Procter: the boy who lived… You interviewed him once, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"What's he like?"

"A little too self-assured for my taste, moreso now that he's Head Auror."

I am saved from Betty's continued prodding as Romilda, one of our new interns, happens by, sporting a frown. I already know it's going to be one of those days.

Romilda summarily drops the folder on my desk. "You need a new quill," she says, her hands on her hips. "Your draft of the story covering Minister Shackleton's arbitration is rife with spelling errors."

"I'll replace _you_ before I replace my lucky quill, Romilda. Besides, it gives you something to do: you're a copy editor—" I shoo her away "—go edit something." And I instinctively open the folder to read the headline:

"GRINGOTTS RETURNS TO NORMAL AFTER GOBLIN STRIKE"

For some reason, I pause on the word in the middle. "Is 'normal' spelled with only one 'L'?"

I forget that Betty is still seated at the fore. "It is, _normally."_ She smirks.

I choose not to feed her cheek. It's amazing the difference one word can make: _Normal…_ "Of course! You're a genius!"

"I'll thank you to tell that to our boss at my next salary review—so long as you don't try to spell it."

Her continued cheek notwithstanding, Betty's statement proves to be prophetic, as our Editor-in-chief, Barnabas Cuff, comes out of his office. He stands in the middle of the newsroom, claps his hands thrice, and all the busy bees are stilled. "I need two quills to submit an op-ed if we're going to make the evening run."

It doesn't surprise me when Betty raises her hand. I just wish that I wasn't in such close proximity as she realizes that she's the only volunteer… Maybe if I avert my eyes she won't pay me any mind…

It didn't work. "Hey, Rita, do you want to help?"

"I wish I could, but I don't want to." I offer her my smile instead.

She rolls her eyes. "You never were a team player, were you? Don't you know that we're cleverer together than on our own?"

"That's so adorable, Betty." I change my strategy, and I start to ignore her.

Thankfully, it works. "One day someone's going to turn the tables on you, Rita." And she leaves.

_Finally…._ I return to my blank parchment. I order my quill to return to its well, and I transfer the page to my typewriter, for these words are not for the prying ears of my fellow reporters. _This could actually work._

I purse my lips, deep in thought. _Procter… Shackleton..._ These'll never do; I must at least change all of their names. I set my fingers on the keyboard, and my muse obliges me:

_Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly _normal,_ thank you very much…._

And just like that, the words begin to flow like a bursting dam, and I now know that one volume isn't going to be sufficient… maybe seven will do. All I need now is a proper _nom de plume…._

My fingers thrum the desktop.


End file.
